“I understand it didn’t last very long,” he addressed us politely again. “And no wonder! The sort of talk she would have heard during that first springtime in Paris would have put an impress on a much less receptive personality; for of course Allègre didn’t close his doors to his friends and this new apparition was not of the sort to make them keep away. After that first morning she always had somebody to ride at her bridle hand. Old Doyen, the sculptor, was the first to approach them. At that age a man may venture on anything. He rides a strange animal like a circus horse. Rita had spotted him out of the corner of her eye as he passed them, putting up his enormous paw in a still more enormous glove, airily, you know, like this” (Blunt waved his hand above his head), “to Allègre. He passes on. All at once he wheels his fantastic animal round and comes trotting after them. With the merest casual ‘_Bonjour_, Allègre’ he ranges close to her on the other side and addresses her, hat in hand, in that booming voice of his like a deferential roar of the sea very far away. His articulation is not good, and the first words she really made out were ‘I am an old sculptor. . . Of course there is that habit. . . But I can see you through all that. . . ’ He put his hat on very much on one side. ‘I am a great sculptor of women,’ he declared. ‘I gave up my life to them, poor unfortunate creatures, the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the most loved. . . Two generations of them. . . Just look at me full in the eyes, _mon enfant_.’ “They stared at each other. Doña Rita confessed to me that the old fellow made her heart beat with such force that she couldn’t manage to smile at him. And she saw his eyes run full of tears. He wiped them simply with the back of his hand and went on booming faintly. ‘Thought so. You are enough to make one cry. I thought my artist’s life was finished, and here you come along from devil knows where with this young friend of mine, who isn’t a bad smearer of canvases—but it’s marble and bronze that you want. . . I shall finish my artist’s life with your face; but I shall want a bit of those shoulders, too. . . You hear, Allègre, I must have a bit of her shoulders, too. I can see through the cloth that they are divine. If they aren’t divine I will eat my hat. Yes, I will do your head and then—_nunc dimittis_.’ “These were the first words with which the world greeted her, or should I say civilization did; already both her native mountains and the cavern of oranges belonged to a prehistoric age. ‘Why don’t you ask him to come this afternoon?’ Allègre’s voice suggested gently. ‘He knows the way to the house.’